Talk
by Naika's Thoughts
Summary: So here I am, John H. Watson, writing. Right now, I am scared about the future, and I don't know what to do. Even more, because neither does Sherlock, and he forgets that I'm not a know it all like him. Yes, you prat. You are supposed to read this. And just for me, remember that alone does not protect you. Friends do.
1. The News

I hear him enter the flat, shutting the door in his usual, mostly silent manner, leaving it to close by itself, while he strides up the seventeen steps, taking two at a time, after stepping on the first stair normally. However, there is a dullness to his pace, as he ascends, not as hastily as how he would when on a case, but not as slowly either. So while he comes up, I take another sip of my tea, eyes on the novel in front of me. It is boring, a part of his vast collection of various books, but I had nothing better to do today, so I decided to read about something that did not involve death or murders. Or anything even close to that, for that fact. However, his pace at the stairs worry me, and my mind wanders from the pages in front, the thoughts all coming together to form a single, coherent unit that said only one thing.

Bad news.

I watch him as he enters, not meeting my eye for the first seven seconds, the papers in his hands making a ruffling sound as they are continually folded and reopened in his long and thin hands. Nervous hands, he always had them, since I time I could remember. The only time they were still was when he was under the influence of an analgesic, or in a case that required absolute precision in handiwork. Else, they perennially trembled, just like now. I look up, to his face, searching, wondering about the results, the ones he is holding in his hands. On getting no reply, I call his name out.

He looks at me with the face, the same way he would always gaze, whether it be us entering a crime scene, or him talking about one of his experiments. The same neutral expression of a mask that he constantly wore to avoid being asked about his emotions. Yet, there is something off, for he seems different. A little... Uncomfortable. Yes, uncomfortable, for though he rarely is, I do see that look when I bring my dates home, and engage in various activities with them, while he tries to concentrate on his work. He always gave that look to me, a silent request to stop distracting him. Couldn't blame him, I guess, for we always did make a lot of noise.

"Well?" I ask him, eyes glancing down at the papers, before back to him. I need an answer, after all.

He nods.

Sighing, I lean back against the couch, balancing the book over my belly as I rub my eyes with my right hand. Of course it was correct. There was no way this could be wrong. The signs were all there, and my mind would never allow me to stop diagnosing things, irrespective of who it was. But there is more, I realize, as I hear him shuffle a little, rather awkwardly, at the doorway.

"How long?" I ask, hoping it would be long enough. It had to be, this was bad enough. To have little time would get much worse.

"Not very. The doctors are giving a time-frame of three months without medications, four with it." He explains, voice unusually clipped. For a second, I can actually imagine a robot talking, the brevity of the situation forcing him to abandon his emotions in the face of logic. Of course he has to, after all. A person cannot die with attachments, emotions, and in many ways, he is doing the correct thing. But.. It feels odd. I want him to be human, at least now, if not more often. Three months..

"Well, what are we waiting for?" I ask, removing the book from my lap as I stretch and then stand up, the injured shoulder giving a sudden twinge as I do.

"Let's start planning. There will be a lot of things that need to be taken care of. Come on now.." I tell him, walking to the kitchen to retrieve my notepad and a pen. Three months of life. What can someone do in that? Hell, what can't they? And it's Sherlock, planning out the bucket list. I'm almost certain that he could complete all of it in one month, irrespective of what it is, and then leave the two months just for.. Nothing.

"Start. I'll add mine in later.." I tell him as I go towards him, giving him the notepad and the pen, taking the file from him. That is my domain, this is his. He is the planner of all things, and I'm just the scrutinizer, pointing out inaccuracies and errors. I can't see him now, but I can feel his gaze on my back, watching me as I walk away, towards my room, out of the door and up the stairs, glancing through the figures, reports, comments, and what not.

This was going to be the longest three months of our lives.


	2. The meeting

I'm still not sure why I'm here, waiting for Mary to come. I'm not even sure if Mary would come, and yet, here I am, sitting at Notting Hill, at a restaurant known as ' The Shed', eating fish and chips. Sherlock, as usual, ran away to complete one of his cases, promising to meet me back at Baker street soon (something that I doubt thoroughly), leaving me with too many hours to kill, and too little time with him.

I sigh, taking a break from the incessant munching of the chips. Two months and twenty nine days. Two bloody months and twenty nine days, and we are wasting our time, trying to be nice and telling every person.. That. About the news. We agreed on calling it that, "The News", for it sounded more like a tabloid rather than nature's death sentence, making things a little easier for us to digest. I honestly do not know how Sherlock is taking it, frankly, for since I handed him the notepad yesterday, he has been awfully quiet. I don't blame him, though. If I were in his place,I would have probably lost my marbles by now, crying and cursing this world for its cruel and frankly ridiculous choices. And now, here I am, all alone, breaking the news out to my ex-wife. Bloody brilliant work, Sherlock.

I look down at my phone, wondering why it is so unusually silent, and wondering if Sherlock was alright, when I hear the chair scrape. Looking up, I see Mary, smiling at me as she took her seat.

"Hello John." She greets, quietly, just as always, flashing a smile at the waiter as he offers her a menu card. Thank goodness that we had separated on amiable terms. Else god knows that the three months would have ended almost a year ago, along with the divorce.

"Hello Mary." I greet back, giving her a half smile she had once called 'adorable'. Honestly, though, that made me feel like a stuffed toy.

"So, how have you been? You look tired." She tells me after taking a sip of the water. I give a small snort of amusement, before replying to her query.

"I've been good. Tired yes, for the cancer does that to you. Make you feel and look tired. In fact, you should see Sherlock. He looks like a ghost now, all dark, bruised eyes and thinner than before." I tell her, matter of factly, as she nearly chokes on her water.

"Cancer?" She asks, putting her glass down and looking at my face, searching for the signs that I was joking.

So, sighing, I tell her the entire story. Of the sudden coughing bouts, the wheezing, the pain in breathing.. All of it. And she sits through it all, listening, not interrupting even when I stop midway. I cannot help it, for the part when I remember Sherlock's face, trying to hide it's horror at seeing blood from just a mere cough, made my throat close up, every time. Being a doctor, I know about death, seeing it every and nearly experiencing it once. But its difficult to see someone close to you, someone who you are ready to protect with your life, lose theirs. The experience is traumatizing, both for the patient and the people close to them, and it fills me with more sadness, that a person such as Sherlock should have to go through all this.

After my monologue, Mary reanimates herself, reaching out to pat my hand. She had small tears in her eyes, and the salad she had ordered was untouched beside her.

"If either of you need anything, and I mean anything, don't hesitate to tell me." She offers, her voice muted, choked. I suppress the urge to gape. For never before had I seen Mary look so sad, not since our confrontation in Baker street over her allegedly false attempt at taking Sherlock's life. Ironical now, that she is succeeding in some way.

I smile and nod, my mind racing while blatantly ignoring her false reassurances. I'm thinking about too many things right now, such as the will, the medicines required, the doctors whom can ask for help, for just plain advice. We had agreed on no chemotherapy, for frankly, it was a horrible way to go, slowly wasting away, just counting out days, being in that much pain. So thre-no, two months and twenty nine days, and then it'll all come crashing down.

"John, I must go now. Susan is becoming cranky, and her nanny has an exam tomorrow." Mary's last words bring me back to reality, and I turn my attention to her. Susan, our child. Well, hers now, since she fought for custody. But nevertheless..

"Of course. Give my love to the little one, will you?" I tell her, flashing a smile as I notice the ring. A plain band of gold..

"Mary?" I ask, eyes stuck on the gold ring.

"Are you seeing someone?" I look at her face, waiting for an answer, while she looked away, fidgeting for a few seconds before replying.

"Yes. Goodbye John. I wish you both well. Truly." She tells me, bending low once to give me a peck on the cheek, and then moving away, walking, just going out of the restaurant, leaving me with my now cold plate of fish and chips. I sigh, the third time today, and reach out to take a bite when my phone vibrates.

' Sherlock passed out. When was the last time he ate? Area between the bridge and embankment. Come quickly.- GL'

I wipe my mouth quickly, calling for the waiter to give the bill as I text back with one hand. That bloody idiot! I told him to eat today morning when we were leaving for our respective destinations, as he was swaying lightly on his feet, while standing. Look what he got himself into now. Bloody oaf.

' Four days ago. Call the paramedics, give him coffee, and threaten to put him on the IV. I'll be there in half an hour.- JW'

Swearing under my breath, I put in the rounded amount for the food, and then I run, catching the nearest tube to the Embankment. I swear to god that I am going to kill that nincompoop one day, with my bare hands.


End file.
